The rain was relentless, a pounding curtain of silver needles falling from the sky with no sign of stopping.

Thunder cracked sharply overhead, rattling windows and illuminating the streets in stark, ghostly flashes.

It was the kind of downpour that blurred the world into streaks of grey and left every inch of skin chilled to the bone.

Kokichi Muta hadn’t intended to be out in this. He was supposed to be home hours ago, but between a malfunction in his cursed energy-powered movement system and a miscalculation on his return route, he’d been forced to walk.

He could barely see, the rain soaking through the visor of his modified helmet, his clothing plastered to his wiry frame.

Each step was heavy now, his prosthetic legs grinding faintly with damp strain, and the friction in his joints was making things worse.

Pain pulsed through his elbows, through his knees. His breath came ragged from the exhaustion and cold.

And then—bang.

A sharp thud rang out as he collided into the side of a parked car, slipping and hitting the ground hard. His knees scraped across the gravel, one elbow catching awkwardly against the curb. Grit and rainwater immediately filled the cuts, stinging like hell.

He hissed and tried to sit up, arms trembling from the impact.

The cursed armor on his limbs had taken the brunt of it, but still—his body, weakened and never meant for harsh conditions like this, was clearly struggling.

The rain poured down harder, flattening his white hair to his forehead and dripping into his eyes.

Through the haze of pain and rain, he heard a door slam open. A familiar voice called out—not too loud, but urgent.

Then, footsteps. A shadow under an umbrella. Hands reached out quickly, grabbing his uninjured arm and hauling him out of the storm.

He stumbled upright, the contact grounding him just long enough for recognition to set in. It was you…

Relief hit him harder than the impact had. You moved fast, opening the back of your car and pulling out a clean towel, one you probably kept around for emergencies.

Muta didn’t protest as you wrapped it around his shoulders and helped him into your passenger seat. His limbs ached, trembling slightly as the warmth of your car heater kicked in and chased the bite of the storm from his skin.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Your movements were efficient, practiced—grabbing your first-aid kit from the glovebox and crouching next to the passenger side with a bottle of disinfectant in hand.

Muta watched you quietly, his jaw clenched tightly. Maybe it was pride or embarrassment—he hated feeling like this. Weak, cold, caught in the elements like some helpless thing.

Still, he didn’t flinch when you dabbed gently at the scrape on his elbow, even though it stung more than he cared to admit.

You worked in silence, rain still pelting the roof of the car like a drum, while he tried to calm his breathing.

You didn’t ask why he was out. You didn’t ask why his cursed body wasn’t active or where he was headed.

You simply fixed him up, patted his shoulder once when it was done, and pulled the towel tighter around him like a silent shield against the storm.

For the first time that evening, Kokichi let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closed, listening to the muffled roar of thunder fading into the distance.

Being found by someone he knew—by you—had been the only bit of luck he’d had all night.

And though he’d never say it out loud, he was quietly grateful that if he had to crash into anyone’s car in the middle of a miserable storm, it had been yours.